A Beautiful World
by Bukkunkun
Summary: Post-WWII Toymaker!Engie AU. Slow-build fic and heavy with headcanon names and canon-announced names. Be warned, contains M/M, F/M, and F/F. Dell is a widower who lost both his wife and child in one fell swoop. The casualties after the war does not help, and his sleepy little town he calls home gets a new visitor that brings life not only to its residents but to him as well.
1. Autumn is Coming

Copy-paste from AO3, I completely forgot to upload it here. Huh.

Inspired (strangely) from Spy's Engineer domination line when he calls him a 'toymaker'. Guess whose mind got going, and boy, does Helmet Party sure need a nice, big AU. Too bad this is a slow-build one, haha.

Right, so as I said, it's heavy on the character real-names, so I'll take this chance to announce them-don't forget, I have genderbent a few classes for happy-happy balance! (also because i'm totally queer for femmedic shhhhh)

Spencer - Scout  
Gustav Petrenko - Heavy  
Patricia - Fem!Pyro  
Elise Vogler - Fem!Medic  
Amélie - Fem!Spy  
Bunny (short for Bernadette) Mundy - Fem!Sniper

* * *

The evening had started the way as it had always done.

The sun whispered its goodbye behind evergreens as the last rays of golden shine peeked through gaps between swaying leaves of the apple tress in the orchard in the cool evening air, the sky turning into a soft hue of mauve and blue and black as wisps of orange disappeared from view behind the hills.

Silently, out of sight, the day gave way to night as the stars awoke from their slumber and their brilliance began to shine through the darkness of the black night. Crickets woke up from their sleep, stretching their wings by the bank of the pond as they began to play their evening songs.

Summer was ending, the world was singing as the symphony of cricket song harmonised with the rustling of leaves in the cooler wind, Autumn's time is soon to come, whispered the moon as it floated high in the sky.

Summer's imminent end, and Autumn's late arrival was also on his mind, as he limped out the front door of his home and onto his porch, his cane thudding dully against wooden planks and his leg sounding off with a muffled thump as he followed the little girl out of his house.

There were flying termites buzzing around the lone, flickering web-dusted light bulb he had installed outside. One fell to the ground next to the girl's feet but she didn't react at all to it.

"You sure you're not stayin'?" he asked her, his voice thick with his Southern drawl he had never lost even before the war, and she shook her head daintily, the scarf wrapped securely around her head and face creasing slightly at places near her neck, the orange light of the bulb casting soft shadows on her cloth-covered face.

"I don't want to bother you, Mr. Conagher," she replied, her little voice muffled by the cloth around her head to a blurry sentence, but he understood what she had told him anyway.

He felt tired, he thought to himself, sighing as he bent down to gently pat her head.

"Summer's ending," he told her, "It'll be autumn soon, and you're going to freeze your little behind off." He stroked her head on top of the soft cloth he knew was one of the town's doctor's cashmere shawls gently, and he somehow knew she smiled up at him gently.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Conagher," she assured him, before turning to leave. "Good evening." She bade him, before walking down the stairs off his porch into the dimly-lit cobblestone street.

"Take care, Patricia," he called after her, watching her walk away, before shaking his head, slowly settling into a rocking-chair he had made himself on the porch. He put his cane aside against the rusty railings with its off-white paint now chipping off its bumpy, coppery surface, as he let out a deep breath, rocking himself gently back and forth in the chair as he silently felt the cool night air kiss his calloused skin.

Dell Conagher was a tired, lonely man. Silence was his companion during lazy summer days, coldness his bed mate during long winter nights, even ever since the World War began. Still, he pushed for happiness; he was little town of Teufort's resident mechanic-slash-toymaker who preferred the latter work over the earlier, living every day to bring smiles to the town's children. All the children in that tiny little town had a little toy he made especially for them, a treasure they kept with them throughout the years of their youth.

Well, all of them save for one: little Patricia, the orphaned little girl that had wandered into Teufort a week after the war had been declared over, carrying with her bundles of little matchsticks in a tattered bag, a scratchy flour sack serving as a cover for her little head as she stumbled into town, little fingers shaking and tiny feet all blistered and bleeding.

He remembered the day he saw the little girl: she had been a little shivering bundle of cloth in Dr. Elise Vogler's arms, the German woman, all still prim and proper even in her lovely peach-coloured nightgown and long, braided hair, the sleeves wet with rainwater and her slim, small shoulders dotted with water drops as she stood at his porch, the little girl in her arms, an umbrella awkwardly sandwiched between her right arm and her torso, at an angle and dripping with water, some rolling off its smooth, black surface and landing with silent splashes on her shoulders.

There were rushed knocks at his door that evening: it had been the first rain of the autumn season; the rain that brought out the alate termites to their first flight of the season. It poured heavily in large inch-wide droplets, splashing loudly on the roof above Dell's head as he read a book quietly by a lamp in the first floor. The knocks were hardly audible over the crashing of the rain, but Dr. Vogler's calls for his assistance certainly reached his ears, and he raced to the door as fast as his leg and limp could carry him.

When he saw the little girl in Dr. Vogler's arms, there was no way he was going to turn her down.

Doctor and mechanic quickly took her to his bedroom, and unwrapped the flour-sack scarf to reveal her heavily disfigured face—healing burns and cuts and bruises littered her skin, ugly black and brown blooms of healing flesh covering her cheeks, her quivering, sickly, hypothermic lips. Her hair, red, like the Scot woman who used to work at the nearby pub with her husband the barkeep, was in tufts—strands left strewn here and there, half-burnt, half chopped off. Her eyes were delirious with her high fever and cold. Dr. Vogler's muttering as she checked over the little girl's situation faded into background noise, drowned out by the sound of Dell's heart breaking in his chest for the little girl lying sick on his bed.

Since then he and the doctor had tried convincing her to move in with one of them, but she had refused their offers, not wanting to inconvenience her saviours. She had been so used to abuse and loneliness because of her face that she was now learning to live on her own, to avoid having to feel the pain of the loss of family all over again.

It had aggravated him to no end—his worry for the little girl regularly populated his mind, and it had been far too long since he had been thinking about the welfare of a young girl.

"You're imprinting your daughter on her, Dell," Dr. Vogler had told him, one evening during the week of Patricia's recovery in his house. "She's not your child."

"I know," he replied, but she shook her head.

"You're still not over Margaret and Elizabeth," she sighed, patting his shoulder with her small hand. "Margaret's long gone, Dell—you have to accept that, my dear friend."

"I have," he protested, but she resolutely stared him down.

"You haven't," she pressed, before looking down at the girl sleeping in his bed. "This girl is not Lizzie, Dell, don't forget—she's her own self." Her tone dropped to an apologetic whisper, "She's not your stillborn."

"I know," Dell snapped at her, and immediately Dr. Vogler stood back defensively, calmly waiting for him to calm down. The man shook his head, sighing heavily as he lowered himself down onto a seat near him, setting his cane against his bed. "I'm sorry, Elise, I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's alright," she nodded at him, before turning her attention to the child. "When she recovers, one of us will have to take her in." she said, and light lit up in Dell's eyes. She didn't miss it—a light had lit up in her friend's tired blue eyes, and she smiled at him gently. "Are you alright with that?"

"Of course," he replied, nodding, and his doctor smiled at him slightly, before making her way to the door.

"I'll see you again tomorrow, Dell." She bade, turning the knob to leave—

"Elise." She turned to look at him, and he—once again in a long time, she noted—was smiling at her, tears of gladness in his eyes. "I'll take care of her, I promise." He said, "I'll take care of her—like, like I would have with Lizzie."

She smiled, returning to his side and taking his hands, patting them gently, before kissing his forehead tenderly.

"That I'm very sure of, _mein freunde_," she told him, "Good night, Dell."

"G'night, Elise." Dell replied, and with a small smile and a wave, Dr. Vogler left him alone in the room.

Patricia had kindly refused his offer to her when she had recovered, shyly already reaching for Dr. Vogler's shawl to wrap around her head to cover her face the moment she was allowed to. She told him she had her own reasons, none of which was his fault, but as he watched her leave his house for the first time as a lonely orphan as lonesome as he was and not his daughter, he couldn't help but think to himself how it was his fault anyway.

Had he been too overbearing? Too daunting?

He didn't know what he had done wrong—there was only so much loneliness a person could take.

The sound of raindrops dropping against the handlebars of his porch's railing shook him out of his thoughts, the light clinking of water against metal like light music to his ears as he found himself watching the water fly from the sky to the ground in a gentle, cool motion, tiny droplets first whispering their hellos to the earth and cobblestone and metal roofing, followed by large raindrops crashing into the earth they hurtled at.

It had rained like this, when he first met her.

The sky was already dark, and the moon hid behind nimbus clouds releasing their heavy grey load onto the world below. There was hardly any moonlight in the area; only the light from lonely-looking streetlamps and Dell's porch's light bulb pierced the darkness of the street before him.

Quietly he thought about little Patricia—where was she now in this rain, he wondered, hoping that possibly she had managed to find shelter to sleep in before the first few drops fell. It was a difficult time to be stuck stranded outside in, with autumn fast approaching and the winds growing colder as the days passed by. The nights were slowly growing longer, as the days grew shorter, the apple trees bursting with red fruit and the grapevines heavy with its purple fruit. The wheat field behind the town's general store was golden yellow in the day—tonight; the wheat tastes their last fresh rainfall before the incoming harvest.

Surely she was somewhere safe and dry; the inn's roof jutting out over its entrance was large enough to be good shelter in this rain—it was like his own porch's roof, anyway. He had made that himself with her in mind.

The last of the flying termites had dropped to the ground.

"I'm a-fixin' to get some shut-eye, I think," he spoke up to no one in particular, slowly getting up from his seat, gripping onto his cane tightly until he was standing upright. "Yeah," he sadly sighed, looking back down the road Patricia went one last time, before begrudgingly entering back into his house. "I'm-a get some shut-eye…"

As he closed the door behind him, thunder rumbled in the distance, light flashing across the fields, highlighting a police car speeding down a highway less than a kilometre away from Teufort, as all the lights in the village plunged into darkness, the lone bulb outside Dell's house the last light left in the blackness of that story night.

The night was deep; the forest even deeper, the rain blurring all their lines and borders together into an undistinguishable mess of black, brown and dark green. The road was slick with mud; dirty and slippery, saturated with rainwater, as the automobile sped down the road, the wheels protesting with creaks as tyres slipped over brown sludge.

"Slow down," the man in the back growled. His hands were cuffed together beneath the end of his army uniform's sleeves, his white gloves bunching up at the junction of his thumb and his palm to accommodate the metal around his wrists. His blue eyes were deep-set, heavy with dark rings beneath them, his skin was clammy and his body quaked slightly despite the thick cloth of his uniform on him.

The two police officers in front ignored him; an accused murderer was someone one should exercise caution around, after all—they were under orders not to speak with him, no matter what.

"I mean it, slow down," he bit out at them, his eyes fierce, his thick eyebrows knotting together in frustration as his hands balled into fists in his lap. "Or we're going to—"

There was no one around to hear the sound of tyres squealing, metal creaking, tearing and folding, glass shattering, three bodies hitting the undergrowth at the side of the road—the snap of a neck, the wet sound of metal piercing the heart, and a groan of protest that sounded at the same time as the chink of handcuffs, but just because no one was around didn't mean that that accident didn't make a single sound.

To retired Sergeant Jane Doe, however, each sound pounded his ears like drums—everything was too loud as his head spun: the beating of the rain down on his face, the sound of mud flowing through his short hair and into the creases in his skin, the sound of the car creaking in protest to the elements all around him, the sound—or lack thereof—of breathing from the two wardens.

They were _dead_, he thought to himself as he laid in the mud, dumbfounded—

And a grin of relief spread across his face.

But _he_ was not.


	2. Like a Bug to Light

Torrential rain was never a problem to Jane. He was a man who survived four years of the War—there was no weather he hadn't gone through in the time he was deployed to the front lines, fighting for America with all that he could the very moment his beloved country entered the fight between the Allies and the Axis.

There was water running over his head, fat globules of water catching on his eyelashes, weighing his eyelids down, but he had gone through that in the War already.

The world around him was washed over with grey and brown, dirtied and wet and sticky with saturated earth as he struggled out of the ditch he had found himself in, dragging his heavy body, weighed down by fatigue and sleeplessness and wet clothes, towards the two dead police officers a little closer to the wreckage.

There was a reason why he refused to put those faulty seatbelts on.

Smirking, he dug through their pockets, fishing out their wallets and stuffing them in his own, before finding the keys to his handcuffs. His hands shaking from the cold, he did his best to quickly free his hands. It was difficult; his vision wasn't very clear, and his hands were unsteady and clumsy, stiff with cold and shaking with haste, but he managed to slip the tiny metal key into the lock and turn it, hearing the latch unclasp with great satisfaction.

Hurriedly he tossed the cuffs aside and rummaged through their pockets some more to find the car keys. He trudged to the car and saw the back was still intact. Grateful he had thought of picking up the keys first, he made his way to the back and unlocked it, throwing it open to see his things still there in the back.

Quickly he pulled up the duffel bag up on his shoulder and picked up a pistol he pilfered from one of the dead wardens, slipping three magazines of ammunition into his coat before heading away from the crash site and onto the muddy road.

There wasn't much light in the area; only moonlight lit his way, but he could see a light in the distance. It wasn't more than a kilometre away, and it was only a singular, lonely orange light in the midst of the cold darkness around him, like a beacon—the sun, warm and orange, calling out to him from all the way out there.

Resolute, Jane made his way towards the light—he felt like a little bug, heading to some light he had no idea what was lying beyond it, or what would become of him, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

He was hungry—but he had always been, in the front lines, in the line of fire, bullets flying past his arms, his legs, his ears; it was something he had been living with for a long time anyway.

He was cold—but so were hundreds of other soldiers like him in this weather. September was halfway done, a fortnight in, a fortnight after the war had been declared an end.

He was sleepless—night after night, battalion after battalion he and his team took down; many a man had died by his hands and his guns, and he had seen them all on the throes of death, blood caking their faces, their eyes full of regret and bitterness and dismay. They haunted his dreams every night—calling for him to join them, where he rightfully belonged; he wasn't supposed to have survived those four years. He was supposed to be sleeping with the maggots feasting on his flesh, his bones resting into the soil where his fellow soldiers lay—

Yet here was still here, above the earth, breathing, feeling, fighting—_alive_.

Yes, there was something more important he had to do, anyway: hunger, hypothermia and insomnia were only secondary to what he had on his mind that night.

Retired Sergeant Jane Doe was on the run from a conviction that stemmed from a false accusation.

He lived through the war so he could run.

Death would have to wait.

As he trudged off the road and into the thick forest that led to the village, he wrapped his arms around himself to keep in warmth as much as he could. He was shivering beyond his control, but years in waterlogged trenches and snowy hills had taught him to fight against coldness's sharp teeth. It had tried so many times to take him and now was not different—but that also meant that now he was to escape from its bite again.

Thunder rumbled above him, and lightning bathed his world in a flash of light, highlighting his silhouette in the ground before him as he walked past evergreens and oaks, chestnuts rustled around him as the wild trees gave away to clearings and a cobblestone road met his sights as he trudged on through the wet soil.

The rain grew heavier. His vision worsened and everything felt heavier—much heavier than it had ever felt before.

He realised, then, that his body was catching up with him. It was tired, out of energy, weak—and refusing any prison food was taking its toll on him.

_Damn it,_ he thought, _not now_, not when he was _this _close—

Blind now from water running down his closed eyes, he stumbled over steps clumsily as he made his way to the light, landing against a pole to see that the light he had wandered over to was a lone light bulb, flickering every once in a while, dusted with greying cobwebs. There were dead flying termites on the ground next to it, but there was a lone bug still flying to the bulb.

Much like he was.

And unlike its fellowmen, it looked like it was going to stay there for a while.

The thought put a tired, lopsided grin on his face, and he turned his head to see a door. He looked around to see he was standing on a porch. He had somehow stumbled to a house. He didn't even know there was a village out here where it was so remote.

Life was on _his_ side tonight, it would seem.

He dragged himself to the door, weariness hurriedly seeping into his bones at the thought of imminent rest—

He slammed his fist against the surface. It was smooth enough, there were small splinters that stabbed gently into his hand, softened by the rain. It was warm—it was nice and toasty inside.

"Someone in there?" he yelled over the rain. His voice was hoarse from dehydration, but he was used to yelling. Talking normally wasn't something helpful over the deafening sounds of explosions, and gunshots, and people dying.

He banged his fist against the door repeatedly—twice, thrice, four times.

"Is someone in there?" he punctuated each word with a slam of his fist on the door, until at one point he swung at air.

Relief flooded his senses and his mind blanked out. He fell forward into a pair of arms, completely ignoring the surprised yell from the person he had just crashed into.

It was the last thing he heard before he blacked out.

The rain was loud; thunderous, littered with lightning flashing across darkness all around the town. There was no light around—a blackout had swept through town. Only hearths burned in houses that had them, as sources of heat in the incoming cold weather of the oncoming winter season.

The autumn rain was heavy, hard and unforgiving, but it somehow lulled the people of Teufort to sleep with its cold winds kissing heated skin from the heat of the day. The trees dripped with its heavy load of water, leaves lolling up and down softly and gently with drops of sky-tears rolling all over their shiny leaf blades and midrib.

It was as it had always been, and for Dell Conagher, tonight was a night like any other. His self-built generator whirred loudly in the garage behind him, and he knew he couldn't sleep with that racket on, with or without those earmuffs Maggie had made him long ago.

He thought his night would go on the way it usually would, after seeing Patricia off. Sitting curled up on the couch with a book tucked between his chest and knees as he read with his cane propped up by his side, he thought that things would still go on as they would—Patricia would still refuse to live with him, Elise would berate him on it, and he would still be alone and loveless.

The hurried knocks and yelling at his door changed all that, though.

The first set of knocks sounded more like the pounding of a fist against the wood of his door. His eyes widened and his book dropped to the floor, landing on the ground with a thump that Dell didn't hear.

The banging was still ringing in his ears, as worry crept into his head.

Was it Elise again, with Patricia in her arms, struggling again because of his inability to protect her?

Not again, he thought, he couldn't bear the thought of losing someone like that again.

But then, there came a voice he had never heard:

"Someone in there?" a man yelled over the rain, and for a moment Dell thought he was under attack by some bandits of some sort—his house _was_ the last one this side of the little village, after all, but then he heard the wet thump of a body solidly landing against the door as the pounding persisted.

"Is someone in there?" each word was punctuated with a punch, and at once Dell knew that this was a man in need of help, rather than someone who wanted to attack him.

After all, who would want to attack a simple, lonely toymaker with a nasty limp?

As fast as he could, he scrambled off the couch and stumbled clumsily to the door, flinging it open to see a man standing at the door, dressed in military attire. His dark coat was dripping wet, saturated with rainwater, and sullied with mud. Leaves and twigs stuck to him. It was clear he had somehow walked through the forest next to Teufort to land where he was now. His face was pale, his eyes half-lidded and delirious with exhaustion, and suddenly, without warning, he fell forward right against Dell, unconscious.

"Hey! Wait!" Dell managed to yell before the larger, taller man landed on top of him, and the both of them crumpled to the ground. Spluttering, Dell scrambled to pull himself out from beneath the man, and frowned down upon the unconscious soldier on his porch.

It was strange for a soldier to turn up around these parts, he thought to himself, as he struggled to get up, picking up his cane and leaning heavily against it before he hooked his arms under the man's armpits and hauled the man upright to lean against the door. Teufort was a tiny village so remote no armies thought of coming by their peaceful little home. It was hardly scathed in the War because of its remoteness, so the sight of a soldier here was rather strange, especially two weeks after the War ended. Didn't this man have a home to return to?

Enough of the questions for now, though, Dell told himself, as he hauled the man upstairs to the spare room next to his. It was the guestroom he and Maggie had made themselves, a little cramped and tiny, but it was something they were both proud of, and it was enough for at least one grown person. Elise was a testament to that.

Grunting with exertion, Dell peeled the man's clothes off and propped him up against the bed, stumbling away to the bathroom to pick up a spare towel. Grumbling down at his bad leg, he smacked at it lightly and cursed it quietly; there were so much more things he could do with ease if he didn't have the damn thing.

No use getting angry over spilled milk, though, he sighed, as he made his way back to the man and wiped him dry, running his hands over short, thin blonde hair, and rough, war-toughened skin. Looking down at the man's large, muscular body, he silently wondered what he had gone through in the war.

"Wonder who you are, slim." Dell told him, aware the man wasn't listening, but he shrugged it off. "Don't you have a family to go back to or something?"

He looked at the man's sleeping face, and sighed, shaking his head. He remembered seeing dogtags in the piled of clothes he took off, but he decided against reading them. He would allow the man to explain himself: after all, after the war, he'd imagine all would want new lives, no exceptions.

He heaved the man up onto the bed (not an easy feat, Dell realised, seeing as the man _was_ much bigger than he was) and tucked him in as best as he could. Standing back, he studied the man's face again, and he could see the dark lines under his eyes. He was just like he was, he thought. Tired.

A sad smile crossed his face, and Dell shook his head.

"I'll see you in the mornin', Slim," he smiled at the sleeping man. "Let's talk then."

He limped away to the door, looking over his shoulder at the man and turned the light off, smiling tiredly at him one last time before turning around and closing the door behind him.

The man turned in his sleep in the bed, mumbling, before falling still once more.


	3. A Morning in Teufort

Jane awoke to the smell of coffee brewing.

Sitting up groggily, he groaned as he rubbed his forehead, his vision clearing to reveal that he was in a bed in a tiny room, with walls and ceilings of wood planks. A small dresser was beside the bed, and the window was on the other side. Pulling off the sheet on top of him to the side, he realised he was naked, and his eyes widened.

"My uniform," he gasped, stumbling out of bed, toppling off the side and slamming against the ground. The shock jarred him into consciousness, his vision sharpening vividly, colours blending into clarity as he pulled himself off the ground to come face-to-face with a chair right beside his bed, where some spare clothes were sitting, neatly folded. His dog tags and badges were resting on top of it as he stared at it, blinking confusedly.

The door at the end of the room (Jane wondered through the clearing haze of his mind how he didn't notice _that_, of all things) opened and a man dressed in plain pyjamas and a shirt stepped in, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a walking cane in the other. The soldier eyed the man—he was stout, his hair short and thin like his own, and he walked with a limp on his bad leg. He looked like a veteran—the look in his eyes was tired, lonely—like he had seen many things in the world.

This man would understand him, then, if that was the case.

"Heard you wake up," he chuckled, stepping in, and Jane realised the man had a Southern drawl. An American! This was going to bode well for him. "Got a nasty one, Slim?" he asked, coming to a stop in front of him, holding out the mug for him to take.

"Affirmative." He gruffly replied, taking the mug from the man. "You're American?"

He laughed—how strange, Jane thought, but he said nothing to his saviour. "Ah, you're definitely a soldier." He sighed, but he nodded. "But yeah, I'm American. Come from Bee Cave, Texas. The name's Dell. Dell Conagher. You are?"

"Sergeant Jane Doe." He replied simply. He refused to give anything else away.

"Ah, I see." Dell nodded, still smiling kindly. "Well, let's talk about you a little more downstairs. I made some grub, so you'd better eat up." He gestured to the clothes pile. "I fixed up some clothes for you—your uniform's all wet, so it's out to dry. I hope they'll be alright, I'm a little smaller than you are." He laughed kindly, "The bathroom's two rooms down from here, on the right. I'd appreciate it if you'd take a bath first—you were covered in mud last night!" he chuckled, before turning to leave.

"Civilian," Jane spoke up, and Dell laughed.

"Just Dell would do, Sergeant." He replied, smiling. "The war's over."

Jane said nothing about that.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're in Teufort, son. Too far out for the army to attack." He smiled apologetically. "Sleepy little town, you'll be bored here."

Jane nodded. "Affirmative—" he stopped himself, and continued: "I'd imagine."

Dell smiled at him kindly, and nodded. "One step at a time."

One step at a time, Jane repeated in his mind, as Dell left the room. The soldier pulled himself up off the ground and eyed the clothes. It wouldn't hurt to take a bath, then, he reasoned—the problem was his current state of wear—or lack thereof. Was he _really_ going to walk out into the corridor naked as the day he was born?

Well, he heard no ladies outside, and Dell seemed like a man who lived alone. Might as well.

Gathering up the clothes and his badges in his arms, he suddenly realised that the duffel bag that he had taken with him was nowhere to be found; his things were in there—his folding shovel, his helmet, that pistol and rounds of ammunition…

He looked around the room, and found nothing. Jane frowned. He must have dropped it on the way there. The two wallets he stole from the officers were on the bedside table, however, and when Jane rifled through them, they weren't empty, and they looked like they hadn't even touched—they were still slightly soggy, but Dell had flattened them out on the desk to dry as best as they could.

The man was considerate, Jane had to admit. He wondered how considerate he would be when he heard his entire story.

Worrying would have to wait, though. For now, he had to get moving. He put the badges and his dog tags down next to the wallets before heading outside. He could hear Dell downstairs in the kitchen, the smell of toast filling the air, his gut turning in hunger at the delicious, warm smell that he hadn't felt in ages. It reminded him of home—where his family would sit together for breakfast, jam and toast on Sundays, coffee hot and strong, and aromatic, the sun golden outside in the fields, family members laughing and sharing stories, before bombs falling, and laughter turned to screams—

Jane stopped, and realised his hands had begun to shake, his vision blurry with water in his eyes.

He'd been triggered, but that was just weakness sneaking up on him when he was at his most vulnerable. That would not do—he was a soldier, a soldier for the United States of America, goddamn it, he would not tolerate crazy flashbacks that reminded him all the more of what he had lost.

Shaking his head to clear it, he resolutely walked on and found the bathroom. He half-threw the wooden door open, and found the small bathroom—tiny, with simple, tiled walls. There was a bathtub, white with dried-water deposits on its metal legs. It looked rather old, but well-maintained. It seemed Dell was a handyman—a mechanic, perhaps, or someone who worked with their hands.

He set the clothes down on top of the counter next to the sink, and he turned the knob for the water—he didn't mind if it was cold or not, just water would have done, but as he climbed into the tub and into the water, his eyes widened to feel warm water—not scalding, but _just right_ and he instantly melted into the warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.

In a _very_ long time, he thought, as he felt his entirety loosen up, knots untangling just at the sensation of warmth washing over him sweetly, like a lover's caress smoothing its way over his tired muscles.

A content sigh escaped Jane's lips. This was new—yet so old, like those warm nights before the war, when his bed was still soft, and the threat of war still so far away, where the ground shook with explosions, gunshots ringing in the air, people screaming, yelling in pain, blood everywhere, so, so, red, red, like the stains on his guns, on his grenades, on his uniform, his shovel—

The water's peaceful lapping intensified and Jane's eyes widened to find his hands trembling wildly again, the water splashing around them violently as his hands' muscles spasms disturbed the peace. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched himself to attention, gripping his hands together and pressing it against himself to get them to stop shaking. This was getting ridiculous—he fought a _glorious_ war—he fought for _America_, damn it, why was he getting so shaky over it?

Grumbling, he shook his head resolutely, and lifted himself out of the water. It was probably best if he didn't stay in there too long. Hurriedly he washed himself, pulled a towel off a nearby rack and dried himself off. He glanced at the clothes Dell gave to him, and unfurled them to find a simple white shirt, and a pair of pants. He pulled them on (and smirking slightly to find they were shorter than he was, and had a rather tight fit around his waist) and headed back outside to see Dell slowly coming up the stairs.

"Oh, there y'are, Slim," he smiled, "You were takin' a while, I was going to check up on you."

"I am fine," he replied, shaking his head, as the limp man began to slowly head down the stairs. It was lucky he had emerged from the bathroom with Dell only five steps up, Jane thought, as he slowly walked down the stairs in time with Dell, the man offering him an apologetic smile, before following him to the kitchen, where two sets of breakfast was on the table.

"Take a seat, Sergeant," Dell smiled, gesturing at a seat, "I'll go fix you some coffee."

"Thank you." He replied stiffly, sitting down as he watched Dell pick up the coffee pot on the kitchen counter, before hobbling over to his side to pour in the dark liquid into the mug next to his plate of eggs, toast, and bacon.

"Hope you like it a little strong, Slim." He chuckled, "I'm too used to change my brew."

Jane took a sip of the coffee, and a small grin crossed his face.

"It's just how I have it back at home, too." he replied, and a warm smile crossed Dell's face.

"Well, ain't that a relief." He chuckled, taking a seat across the man. "Go, on, get. Eat up; we'll talk while we eat."

Jane nodded, and began to tuck in.

"So, where'd you come from? You're a soldier in the war?"

"Affirmative," Jane replied, surprised to feel how hungry he was, at how fast he finished his bread. "U.S. Army," he added, nodding thankfully as Dell added another pair of toast to his plate. "1941 to '45."

"All America's years, huh," Dell sighed, smiling sadly. "You must be very lucky to have survived all that time."

Jane shrugged offhandedly, refilling his mug of coffee. "You served too?" he asked, gesturing at Dell's cane, which was leaning on the armrest next to his chair, and the man chuckled sadly, shaking his head.

"Oh, no," Dell replied, "It's because of this danged thing I didn't enlist, I'm sorry to disappoint you," He replied, "There're some people here in Teufort that enlisted, though." A sad expression replaced his smile, and he sighed. "Only a few made it back."

"I'd imagine," the retired soldier answered, "I've known many a good man down in the war. KIA, most of them." His expression was set, stone-cold, but under the table, Jane's hands balled into shaking fists. "… I was there."

A solemn silence spread over the two of them, until Dell clearing his throat broke it.

"Well, Slim, now I gotta ask, how'd you end up here in Teufort? Surely a soldier like you has a family to go home to."

"I don't." he simply replied, and at once, Dell understood.

Jane, after all, had the same look he had—the look of a man that lost it all—his family, the ones he had loved.

"… I see." He nodded solemnly, and looked at Jane kindly. He couldn't say he was sorry; no, it was far too away, all over and done with to be sorry about anything, and anything that could be done had already been done.

Silence overtook them again, but this time, it was Jane who spoke up first.

"Also, I'm on the run." He said, and at that, Dell's eyes widened, the man's jaw falling lax in surprise, as he stared at Jane. "From the police. I've been accused of murdering a higher officer." he scowled.

Dell backed away from him slightly.

"Granted, the guy _was_ a maggot asshole," Jane scowled, "And I'm glad he's kicked the bucket, but—"

The cocking of a shotgun shut him up, and he found himself staring down the barrel of the gun, a look of surprise crossed his face, and his eyes trailed up the gun to look up at Dell, who had a frown on his face.


	4. A New Home

AAAAND FINALLY MEDIC YESSSSSSSSS

I'M SO HAPPY THE TEMPORARY SOLDIC IS HERE I'M DKSF';ALGKA'L;FKDSL';GK

Also dell sadtimes oh no

oh well helmets holding hands weeeeee

i'm sorry i came bcak from an exam and this was the first thing i worked on wheeeee

* * *

"Please tell me I did not just help a criminal, Slim." He sighed, and Jane's eyes widened. "I do _not_ have the time for this mess. I've got kids to take care of."

Jane slowly raised his hands, silently wishing he had his duffel bag, the pistol in his hand, his trusty shovel in the other one, ready to fight off… a lonely man with a bad leg.

Jane paused, hesitation clear on his face, and Dell faltered slightly, confusion etched on his.

Dell was just fighting for himself—it was only natural, after all. Everyone was still hung over the war, and there were still _those_ kinds of people around, those who were worse than all the people who led the war. Jane knew that too, and he knew that look in the man's eyes all too well.

He had seen them before, in cornered civilians, pressed up against destroyed walls of bombed buildings, next to the dead and dying, blood-paint on the walls, death and smoke the smell of the air.

"I did _not_ kill anyone." Jane declared firmly, gently pushing the barrel of the gun to the side, away from him, his eyes trained directly at Dell's, conveying all the truth he could muster in them. "I am not a murderer. I am a _soldier_. A soldier of the United States of America—we are not murderers."

He pulled the barrel aside and gently led Dell to lower the gun, and the man sighed, as Jane eased him back into his seat.

"I… I'm sorry, Sergeant. I'm really—I'm," he shook his head. "You know what it's like; there have been too many people I've lost, I can't," Dell found it difficult to express himself, much to his confusion; he never had problems like this before.

"I understand." Jane simply said, and Dell shook his head, sighing.

"I'm sorry." He insisted, and silence fell over them for another long moment, before he spoke again. "What do you plan on doing now?" he asked.

"I don't have anywhere to go." Jane simply replied, and the man gave him a small smile.

"Why don't you stay here at Teufort, then?" he asked, putting the shotgun down on the floor next to him. "Start over a new life."

Jane raised an eyebrow at him, and the man shrugged. "All the other soldiers wished for nothing more." He looked down at his coffee, gently smiling. "You can stay here—well, of course, you gotta earn your upkeep." He chuckled. "But you can stay in my house, if you need it. I'd imagine it would be real hard if you had to stay in the inn for your entire time here."

"You don't mind me being here?" Jane asked, and Dell nodded.

"I could use a friend," he smiled, and a small smile on Jane's lips mirrored his. "And, if I may, I think you could use one too."

Jane couldn't help but smile a little wider.

"Affirmative." He replied, and with a grateful nod, the two of them settled into their breakfast for a rather lovely morning.

Serene, even.

"Right," Dell spoke up, "I think I should take you around town, get you registered," he said, as he got up from his seat. Jane did the same thing, and watched him pick up his dishes. He mirrored the man's actions. "The little miss at the local clinic'll get you sorted out." He smiled, gesturing for Jane to follow him to the back of the kitchen, where the sink was. "Let me just clean up here, is that alright?"

"Affirmative," Jane replied, nodding slightly as he put down his own dishes in the sink next to Dell's, before stepping away, standing there awkwardly, unsure on what to do.

Dell chuckled. "You could take a look 'round my house, if you like." He told the man. "It's not much, but you'll be calling it home for now."

Jane nodded, and headed back upstairs, back into the room given to him. Quickly he looked over his things—the officers' wallets, his dog tags, his badges—they were all still there, of course. Nothing to worry about; but he was still thinking about his duffel bag as he stepped outside. He looked around the small landing of the second floor (which overlooked the first floor's living room) and looked at the other two doors. One was the bathroom, the one at the end, and the other one must be Dell's room. Deciding not to pry, Jane headed back down again.

The living room was simple—a square carpet was in the middle, a banged-up television on one side, and a couch faced it on the other side. There was a large ceiling light above his head that was currently off, the windows looking outside open with day-curtains moved aside to allow sunlight in. Jane could see the outside of the small home—a proportionately small village all along a single cobblestone road.

Beneath the landing was the kitchen, where the table was, and at the back wall was the stove and sink. To his left were two more rooms, the one closer to outside visible through a glass window that had wooden blinds pulled up above it.

It was a small shop, with wooden shelves that had toys on them. There was a counter at the end, and behind it was a doorway that possibly led to the room behind it, denoted by the other door next to it.

"You're a toymaker?" Jane spoke up, walking up to the window to peer in the shop. It had its own window leading outside, but it was closed with its own set of blue-painted wooden blinds, casting the shop with a shadow, but Jane could still make out what was on the shelves.

"Oh, yeah," Dell replied, looking over his shoulder to smile at Jane. "I make toys for the kids, but I'm a mechanic too. When people get stuff broken-up, I fix it."

"I'm guessing the room behind it is your workshop?" Jane pointed at the door next to it, and Dell stared at it one long moment, before lowering the plates he was washing with a tired sigh.

"It isn't." he replied, washing his hands clean of soap before wiping them dry. "C'mon, Sergeant. I'll show you what's inside." He told him, hobbling up to the door on his cane, before turning the knob with his free hand and pushing the door open, flicking the light on.

Jane's eyes widened as a soft light flooded the room.

It was a small room, one just right for a child. The walls were painted a baby pink hue, fading into a purple gradient across the ceiling. Little yellow stars dotted the ceiling around a ceiling light that was glowing a soft white. There was a dresser on one side, small enough for a little girl and next to it was a little white vanity, the mirror absent from its frame, and instead wrapped in newspaper, resting on the table. There was a door at the other end of the room, and Jane saw a window on the left, leading to the toyshop. It was right across the bed frame, still unpainted and unfinished, a light layer of dust still undisturbed on it, as bits and pieces of its woodwork lay propped up against it.

"The workshop's over there," Dell spoke up quietly, pointing at the door on the far end of the room.

Jane didn't say anything, but nodded reverently, and ushered Dell gently back outside.

Dell's hands were shaking, and his eyes shone with tears that threatened to fall. Silently, all Jane could offer him was a comforting squeeze on the man's shoulder.

"… I'm sorry." He simply said, and Dell laughed sadly.

"Thank you mighty, Sergeant." He nodded at him, before heading back to the sink, his steps clearly more careless and suddenly so much more laboured than before, as a sense of sadness washed over Jane, the soldier watching him hobble back to the sink with apologetic eyes.

He shook his head, and followed after the man, picking up a rag hanging from the towel rack above the sink, and began to wipe the dishes.

Dell looked up at him, his eyes widening slightly, and he offered the man a weak shrug.

"My home, as much as yours." He simply reasoned, and at this, Dell's smile widened a little more, as if those words were enough comfort for him, and with a brighter smile, he turned his attention back to the dishes he was washing.

A single tear rolled down his cheek, but neither man had chosen to speak about it.

They carried on with their chore for a long, quiet moment, and Jane's mind wandered back to the times before when he would help his mother and sister clean up after Sunday dinner, laughter and the sound of clinking wares behind them as he stood next to his mother at the sink, wiping plates, just like he was doing—and he was _happy_ then, before all the bombs fell and the dishes broke and everyone was screaming, and there was fire everywhere, burning, breaking, _killing_—

"Jane!"

The soldier's eyes widened as the sound of a shattering plate broke his train of thought. Dell grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and he blinked down at the shorter man.

"Your hands were shaking." The man said, gesturing down between them to show the remains of a plate Jane had been wiping. Dell pulled the rag away from Jane's hands to reveal a rather nasty gash on his palm from the broken plate, clicking his tongue in disapproval as Jane's hands trembled violently. "Calm down, Slim. It's just me. You're alright. You're home." He softly said, taking hold of the man's hands in his own calloused ones, carefully avoiding the wound on Jane's hand and giving them a reassuring squeeze.

The soldier stared at him for a long moment, and the man patiently waited for him.

"Sergeant Doe?" he repeated, "You're home. You're okay. Alright?"

"… Affirmative." Jane replied, slowly, and Dell smiled at him. "… I'm home."

_Home_. How foreign it sounded, yet in this tiny house, in this tiny village, it seemed so _right_.

"Good." The man nodded, "Wash that clean upstairs, and we'll head over to the clinic. Now all the more reason to go there," Dell chuckled, before ushering Jane away.

After he had finished cleaning his wound, Dell was already at the door, waiting for him.

"Ready to see Teufort properly this time?" he asked, and Jane nodded.

"After you."

The air was cool and crisp, and still smelled of the rain that fell the night before. It was nearing autumn now, Jane thought, the weather was only going to get colder. As he and Dell walked through the town, Jane took his chance to look around his new home—the houses were small, yet cosy, built next to each other along a single cobblestone road. Children were here and there, running around chasing each other and stray pigeons, their parents calmly looking on as they went about their day.

They passed by a central square (more of a circle, really, but Jane said nothing about it) with a fountain in the middle, and a building relatively larger than the others around it.

"Oh, that's the city hall. Mayor's in there." Dell spoke up next to him, and Jane nodded as he watched a young lady in a purple blouse and skirt step out of the building to wave at Dell. "G'morning, Miss Pauling!" he called, smiling as she came up to him. "School's about to start."

"Yes, it is," the young lady smiled, nodding; "I'm still long away from finishing preparations—so many children!" she laughed.

"I'm sure you can do it," he smiled at her.

"I _have_ to do it!" she grinned, "I'm the only teacher!" she chuckled, before turning to look at Jane. "Oh, hello," she greeted. "I don't think I've seen you around." She offered him her hand for a handshake. "Caroline Pauling. I'm the schoolteacher."

"The _only_ schoolteacher," Dell chuckled, and Miss Pauling smacked his shoulder lightly to reprimand him.

"Sergeant Jane Doe." Jane replied, taking her hand and shaking it stiffly. "Your accent sounds familiar—are you American?"

She paused for a moment, before nodding. "Yes." She replied, smiling, before turning to look at Dell. "Well, I've got to go—it's nice to see you today, Mr. Conagher."

"Nice to see you too," Dell replied, and with a small wave, Miss Pauling walked away. Grinning, he turned to look at Jane. "She caught your eye?" he asked, nudging his arm, but the man shook his head.

"She hesitated." He said, looking at Dell, "When I asked her if she was American."

"Ah, well, I'm sure she has her reasons," Dell dismissed, before pulling on Jane's arm. "C'mon, now, Slim, we've got to get to Dr. Vogler."

"German?" Jane asked, as the shorter man led him to a white-walled building not too far away from the town hall. "Don't tell me he's a—"

"No, no, Dr. Vogler's not like that," Dell waved him off, knocking on the door, before opening it. "Elise? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Jane didn't know what he was going to see, but he _did_ know what he was expecting—the Germans weren't the best people in the war at the time, and the wounds still ran deep in him, as a frown began to cross the retired soldier's face, a loud insult ready to launch on his lips. He had expected some stout little man with pale blonde hair and blue eyes and with a beard just like Hitler's come down from the stairs—

Most definitely _not_ a beautiful woman with long black hair tied in a braid that rested on her shoulder, with cool blue eyes behind slim wire-rim glasses and reddish lips and pale pink cheeks. Jane immediately froze in his place and his jaw dropped slightly as Dell ushered him inside as the woman pulled on a white lab coat with short sleeves, crossing her arms and quietly watching them as Dell closed the door behind him.

"Elise, this is Sergeant Jane Doe." Dell introduced, and the doctor held out her left hand for the man to shake. "Jane, this is Doctor Elise Vogler. She's the town doctor."

"Hello." Elise curtly said to him, but Jane couldn't help but stare at her forearm—rather, the tattoo that blazed on it like a burn on her pale skin: _13541_. He hesitated, but relented and took the doctor's soft hand in his.

A strange bubbling sensation rose in his chest as he grew flustered at the touch, stiffly shaking her hand, and pulling away like he had been burned.

Dell's sneaky grin beside him was _not_ helping.

"Elise, he came into town yesterday and he wants to stay. I was hopin' you would do a physical of him and get him in the town records?"

The woman turned to look at Dell, and nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she thought. "_Jawohl_." She nodded, turning away to approach her desk, pulling out a piece of paper. "I see he has a wound on his hand?"

"Jane." Dell nudged him, and the soldier stiffened up his back.

"Ma'am, I got injured upon breaking a porcelain item in this civilian's home." Jane replied automatically, and Dr. Vogler raised a fine eyebrow.

"Almost there, Slim," Dell chuckled, "He broke a plate and cut himself. Could you patch him up, Elise?"

"… Of course." The doctor eyed Jane, a small smirk of amusement playing on her lips, and Jane pointedly kept his gaze away from her. "Let me just—"

"Dr. Vogler!" a man's gruff voice cut through the air, and the door flew open to reveal a black man with an eye patch over his left eye. "There's a wee problem," he said, a little more calmly now, and Jane realised the man had a thick Scottish accent.

"Tavish," Dell spoke up, surprised. "What's goin' on?"

"Your little girl," he said, and Jane's eyes widened to see the man step inside, with a bunch of blankets in his arms. They were wrapped around a little child, who seemed to be shivering violently despite the amounts of blankets around them. Dell's eyes widened and Jane sat back out of his way to allow the man to rush forward to the one-eyed man to take the bunch of blankets from his arms.

"Tavish, what happened?" Dr. Vogler spoke up, and the Scotsman sighed.

"Saw her this morning, curled up outside the pub, shivering like a wee little pup in the rain!" the man told her. "When I felt her forehead, she was burning up!"

Dr. Vogler's eyes widened and she turned to glower at Dell, much to Jane's surprise. Why on Earth would she be angry at _Dell_, of all people?


	5. A New Friend

Jane opened his mouth to speak up, but Elise shook her head, exasperated and a little angry, her cheeks colouring up prettily with a shade of red as she turned to head to a door at the back of the clinic.

"Bring her here, Dell," she told him. "I'll keep her in the clinic for a while, but you _have _to keep her with you." She said sternly, and with a grave nod, Dell entered the room as the single bulb in it flicked on with a sad sound of a tiny spark.

Jane looked on, quietly, and decided to ask questions later.

Dr. Vogler shook her head, sighing, before turning her attention to Jane, a fine eyebrow raised.

The soldier lifted his hand, and her eyes widened behind her glasses.

"Ach, _ja_, your hand," she shook her head, hurrying to the drawers of medical supplies next to her desk, before taking out the necessary tools. "Tavish," she spoke up as she sat down across Jane. "Thank you for bringing her here," she told the black man as she cleaned Jane's wound with antiseptic.

"Nothing to it," the man grinned, sitting down heavily next to Jane, slinging his arm around the man's shoulders in a friendly gesture. "I just know how taking care of a kid is like. Isn't Dell taking her in, or something?"

The soldier had been staring at he doctor as she tended to his cut, but when Tavish's arm landed heavily on his shoulders, he turned his head to look at him. The man grinned at him, giving him a thumbs-up.

"'Ello. Tavish DeGroot. You're a new face." He said, holding his hand out for Jane to shake.

"Sergeant Jane Doe. Retired." He replied, carefully moving his free hand to shake the man's, taking care to not move his hand as Dr. Vogler pressed a gauze against it.

"A soldier," Tavish nodded. "I was one too." He shrugged, and Jane's eyes widened. "Don't think we ever got deployed together, though."

"I don't think so," Jane replied, a little grin forming on his face. "Still, it's nice to see a fellow soldier out here."

Tavish laughed lightly. "Eh, well you're seeing most of him," he gestured at his eye patch, his grin a little lopsided, but still friendly. "Blew me eye off with a wonky grenade shot." He laughed, loud and boisterous, earning him a light smack on the knee from Dr. Vogler, who had finished wrapping up Jane's hand.

"Too noisy, Tavish, out with the both of you." She scolded, and with a little gesture at the door, she got up from her seat and headed to her desk, as the two men stood up. "Sergeant Doe—"

"Jane, please," Jane cut in, and she nodded.

"Jane," she corrected herself, "Please come back at another time; I have something to take care of." She cast a sidelong glance at the open door Dell went through, and Jane nodded.

"Care for the sick first, right?" he tried smiling at her, but he was sure it came out a lopsided half-grin.

The playful smirk on Tavish's face confirmed his thoughts.

"_Ja_," she replied, the silent conversation between the two ex-soldiers unnoticed. "I'll see you some other time."

"Affirmative." He replied, before turning to face Tavish, whose grin only widened. "Let's go," he urged the man, before heading back outside into the cobblestone street.

Above their heads the sun had gotten a little warmer now, a little higher in the sky than it used to be that early morning. The puddles of water from the rain the night before were smaller now, a little dried-up, but still big enough for the little children to splash around in.

Tavish stumbled out of the clinic after him, laughing knowingly as he crashed into the soldier, his arm slinging around his shoulders again.

"I see someone's been making eyes at a lovely lass," he snickered, pulling Jane along the pathway back down the direction of Dell's house. "Eh, Sergeant?"

"Negatory," Jane replied gruffly, but embarrassment began to wash over him. Dell was the first to notice… _this_ and now Tavish—and he hadn't even met the man for more than three hours!

Tavish laughed again, happy and friendly, and pulled him along.

"Don't worry, I've got you covered, you doe-eyed lad," he chuckled, "C'mon, you have to stop by my pub."

"The pub?" Jane echoed, and Tavish nodded, letting him go to let him walk properly.

"Drinks are on me today." He grinned.

"It's almost ten in the morning."

"Aye, and?"

"Do you do this often? In the trenches?"

"Seven days, twenty-four hours a week."

"Until now?"

"Kind of a hard habit to break."

Jane smirked.

"What are we waiting for, then?"

The both of them reached the pub faster than Tavish had expected.

The pub was only a few houses away from Dell's, and had a few customers in it already, mostly families in for a late Sunday brunch with their children, or the village youth that had decided to stop by for a chat.

It was bigger than the other buildings Jane had seen in the town, half a house wider than the other homes in Teufort, with a not-quite-cramped service area, a reception, an unlit stone fireplace with still-glowing embers. The walls and the floor were lined with beautiful red-varnished wood, and hung up on the walls were framed photos of a beautiful landscape far from Teufort.

An old woman sitting on a rocking-chair looked up from her place at the corner of the pub next to the bar; where a bored-looking boy stood at, chin resting on his hand as he stared out the window with an unimpressed look on his face.

"Tavish!" she called, her voice clear through the din of the pub. "Where have you been?"

"At the clinic, Mum," Tavish spoke up, gesturing for Jane to follow after him to the bar. "Dropped off Dell's little girl."

"Lizzie?" she asked, "What was she doing here? Isn't she a wee little babe?"

Tavish flinched visibly, and Jane raised an eyebrow, but he quickly forced a smile on his face.

"No, Mum, Patricia. Lizzie's a stillborn, you know."

Jane's eyes widened and the sight of that little girl's room back in Dell's house flooded his mind once more.

So she was a stillborn. He didn't lose her in the war, and yet somehow, that seemed to hurt all the more.

The room, after all, was not only uninhabited, it was also _unfinished_.

"Patricia? That wee matchstick lass?"

"The same girl, Mum." Tavish pulled Jane aside to take a seat at the bar, where the teen was now staring at them with disinterested green eyes. "Angus, get two bottles of Scrumpy from the back."

"Give me one good reason why I should, Tavish." The boy replied, his accent just as strong as the one-eyed man's, crossing his arms defiantly.

"Just get me the damn bottles, you little shit." The man replied back, sighing, and the teen rolled his eyes, but did as he was told, disappearing behind a backdoor. Tavish turned his attention back to Jane, an embarrassed smile on his face. "Sorry about my son, mate."

"That was your son?" Jane asked, and the man nodded.

"Well, stepson. He was my wife's son from a past marriage." He replied. "Hates my guts." He chuckled sadly. "Well, anyway. This is my pub, the _Loch Ness Monster_." He gestured at the service area. "It's not as big as the others I've seen elsewhere, but it'll do. There's some room upstairs—it's also an inn."

"I'd imagine you'd do well in the holidays."

"Sometimes," Tavish shrugged, "The income's fine, at least. Enough to feed my family, so it's alright. There's only the three of us, anyway."

The clinking of bottles caught their attention and they turned again to see two bottles set down in front of them, the boy already walking out from behind the bar to head to a group of young men at a table to talk to them.

"Moody teenagers." Tavish chuckled, before taking a swig from his bottle.

"Can't argue with that." Jane agreed, before picking up his own bottle.

They ended up talking about their life on the frontlines, and before long, the two men grew into fast friends, talk bubbling with light laughter and the soft haze of beer on their minds.

It had only been an hour and a half; and yet, Jane felt like he had met a long-lost friend.

It was a nice feeling.

"I should probably go," Jane spoke up after a while, setting down his empty bottle. "It's almost lunch—I'd better make sure Dell doesn't hurt himself."

"Go right ahead, mate," Tavish grinned, waving him goodbye. "I'll see you around, aye?"

"I have to find a job first," Jane chuckled, "Are you sure I can't work here?"

"Have enough hands as it is," Tavish replied, gesturing at Angus, walking around with three trays on him—one on each hand, and the other (a small ashtray) on top of his head. "We're fine here. Try the Bagges'. It's the harvest season; I think they could use a little help on their field."

"Thanks." Jane nodded, before heading back outside, squinting at the light of day that hit his eyes. Slowly he made his way back out to the street, and headed back to Dell's house—to find no one inside.

"… Strange." He murmured, opening the door next to the toy shop's, with the intention to enter the workshop, only to see the little girl's room again—

Lizzie's room, he corrected himself, standing at the doorway with a small frown on his face.

The bed frame was still unfinished, but the dust on it had prints disturbing its even surface. Jane raised an eyebrow and stepped into the room.

The dresser was half-open, nails driven out, and the vanity looked cleaner than before. The white paint was now a little brighter, and the mirror was now in its place. He turned to look back at the bed frame to realise that the planks that had been laying there were gone—there was a tape measure lying next to one of the poles.

A little smile spread across Jane's face. Dell was renovating—possibly for that little girl Tavish brought to the clinic.

He stepped outside to see a note taped to Dell's off-white refrigerator: _went out into the forest for extra wood. Eat up if you like. –Dell_.

He shook his head fondly, and headed back outside. Dell had a bad leg; how on Earth was he supposed to carry the wood from there and back?

Chuckling, he headed into the forest next to Dell's house—only to realise that it was the same set of trees he passed by the day before—the day he escaped from the police.

His smile disappeared from his face as realisation struck him—now was his chance to find that duffel bag.

He took a look around the area, briefly, before trudging onwards further into the forest. It didn't take him too long to find it—the bag was hanging from a tree's low branch, still zipped-shut, and covered in mud. He was going to have to hurry to get it back inside before Dell could see it.

He grabbed the bag, and hurried back into the man's house, up the stairs and into his room, where he shoved it unceremoniously into the empty closet, just as he heard the door open and shut downstairs.


End file.
